by Donna Hill
Her gaze settled on him and she saw the tight line of worry that crossed his brow right between the silken locks of hair that dappled his forehead. Clinton was not one to worry about much of anything. Like her he'd been born into wealth and privilege. However, where they differed was that he was deeply invested in the future of his fortune. She simply accepted that hers would always be there. But seeing the distant look in his eyes, and succumbing to the unfamiliar pressure of his touch, perhaps it was time that she paid more attention.
At some point they'd made it to Celeste's bedroom and while she listened to his soft snores of satisfaction, she stared out at nothingness. Sex with Clinton was the one worthwhile perk of their relationship. Tonight even that fell short and she had no idea why. Her feelings of disconnect had invaded her last refuge.
Clinton turned on his side, burying his head in the curve of her neck. She smiled. He was sweet and charming, smart and rich, and from everything that he said and did, he loved her.
Of course, she'd told him as much herself, and at times she almost believed it. But Celeste had no idea what real love felt like, what it looked like. She imagined it was what she saw on television and in the movies and between Parris and Nick. It was an aura, an energy that couldn't be manufactured.
What was that like? Clinton draped his arm across her waist. She closed her eyes and ran a rapid-fire movie of her life with Clinton, waiting for the spark, that feeling in the center of her being. The movie drifted off without fanfare, without applause, and she'd felt nothing. She needed to know and it suddenly frightened her to think that she may never find out.
The muscles in her stomach clenched and the overwhelming urge to push Clinton to the floor and scream at the top of her lungs was so overwhelming that she trembled. The nerves beneath her skin popped and vibrated. Her heart raced and heat engulfed her. Clinton moaned, turned on his side and away from her. She drew in a strangled breath of freedom.
Tossing the covers aside she eased out of the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, shutting the door in silence. She leaned against the door, pressed her fist to her mouth and wept.
Celeste braked her Jag at the red light on Lenox Avenue. She pressed speed dial on her cell phone, which was mounted on the dashboard. The phone trilled.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Leslie."
"You just caught me."
Celeste could hear Leslie huffing and wished that she would do something about the extra weight.
"I have to meet a client in about twenty minutes and I'm running late. Another bad morning."
Celeste knew what she meant without having to ask for an explanation. Leslie Evans lived with her mother, Theresa--or rather Theresa lived with her daughter--after Theresa had suffered a stroke a year earlier. The dynamics between mother and daughter had always been strained and this most recent alteration in their relationship put it at the breaking point.
"Have you heard from Nick Hunter?"
"No, should I have?"
"I'm pretty sure he's going to contact you."
"You got it!"
"Yes." She laughed. The light turned green and she moved across the intersection.
"Oh, Celeste, congrats. I'm so happy for you. I knew you could do it. What did Clinton say?"
Her buoyant mood spiraled back down with a crash. "I didn't tell him."
"Cel..." She sighed, heavily. "Anyway, we'll talk. I'll call you tonight."
"Not tonight. Mother has arranged one of her 'festive' gatherings."
They both snorted their disgust. Neither of them would ever forget the disastrous night that Celeste convinced Leslie to come to one of the Shaws' gatherings. She hadn't wanted to go, swore she didn't have anything to wear. Celeste would not be deterred and took Leslie shopping. When they walked in, heads and eyes turned in their direction. The entire evening was filled with condescending questions and comments from where a woman of her size did her shopping, what her parents did for a living, where she had her hair done, to the appalling revelation that Leslie didn't summer in the Hamptons, but rather Coney Island or not at all.
Leslie had never been so humiliated or furious in her life. Celeste was mortified. Needless to say, Leslie made her excuses, claiming a headache, and left early. Celeste spent the next week trying to make it up to her friend, until Leslie clearly informed her that her family and friends were pompous assholes, but she wouldn't hold it against her if she swore never to invite her to anything like that again.
"Try to get through it."
"Don't I always?"
"Call me tomorrow," Leslie said, not missing the lack of bite that usually underscored any mention of "The Shaws" coming from Celeste.
"I will." She disconnected the call. She didn't want to think about the evening ahead. The hours of pomp and circumstance, air kisses and enough food to feed a third world country. All the while she would perform as expected, keep her chin lifted to the right height, her eyes sparkling with interest and her laughter pitch perfect. And for her Oscar-winning performance her bank account would receive its monthly infusion of capital, and she would continue to live the life of the consummate hypocrite.
Celeste turned onto the block of the would-be club and looked for a parking space. She was able to squeeze in between a U-Haul truck and a vandalized Volkswagen with missing plates. She turned off the ignition and looked around at the breath of despair that filled the lungs of the corner trio and pushed the residents unwillingly up and down the street.
Her existence, so far removed from this that the experience of being here in the midst of a language and a life she couldn't fathom was equivalent to walking into a foreign land where you were an illegal immigrant. Her gratuitous attempt to bring life back to the dead was only to ease her own conscience so that she could sleep at night in her queen-sized bed nestled on fluffy down pillows and imported cotton sheets.
You still benefit...why aren't you in the Sudan or building houses...?
Parris's question buzzed around her like a mosquito. No amount of swatting, ducking or moving from its path could still the insistent, incessant demand for attention.
In her rearview mirror she spotted Nick's car pull onto the block. She took her safety net from the seat and got out, draping the strap over her shoulder. They met in front of the club.
"This is my friend and business partner, Sam Blackstone. Sam, Celeste Shaw."
Sam stuck out his hand and hers was enveloped in a bed of gentle strength and warmth. A flutter danced in the center of her chest when she stumbled into the invitation of his brown eyes and teasing smile.
"Nice to meet you."
"You, too." She buried her gaze in the depths of her purse in search of the key. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the lock.
Sam took the key from her fingers. "I can do that."
Her heart pounded. She took a step back, feeling foolish and giddy at the same time.
Sam released the locks and opened the door, allowing Celeste to enter first. Her shoulder brushed his chest. The jolt quickened her step. He was right behind her. She felt the heat of his presence press against her back, tickle the hair on her neck.
All of her patented sales lines drifted in and out of her head like a bad cell-phone connection. She opted for silence lest she say something totally inane. She came to the center of the space and turned, only to come face-to-chest with Sam. Her gaze rose upward and his probed her, picking away at the thin layer of facade. She knew standing there would allow him to strip her raw, but she could not move. Maybe she didn't want to.
"What do you think?" Nick asked, coming up on them, giving her the escape she needed but couldn't find on her own. He blew into his cupped hands.
"I'm thinking it has potential." Finally he turned away from Celeste and followed Nick to the back.
Celeste allowed herself to breathe and followed them with her eyes, not trusting her legs, which were suddenly weak. She'd never reacted that way to a man before. Not to Clinton. Not anyone. He was nothing special. An ordinary man. Yet the sw
eet honey of his eyes, the generous curve of his mouth, the rough-hewed texture of his brown-sugar complexion stirred her deep below the surface. Absently she rubbed her hand where his thumb had brushed her knuckles when he held it.
She adjusted the strap on her purse and jammed her hands in her pockets, then crossed the dimly lit room and took a chair down from a three-legged table and placed it by the murky window. Professionalism dictated that she at least give a semblance of a tour and do her spiel. Nothing was working--her brain or her limbs.
Voices deep and rich drifted toward her, their harmonized camaraderie gave life to the peeling walls and cracked ceiling. They were laughing as they approached, laughing the way only people who know the worst about you can, and still care.
She pushed herself up from her seat, straightened her shoulders. "So," she said on a breath, "what do you think?"
"I think my man here made a good deal." Sam tilted his head to the side. "It's going to need some work." Sweet honey settled on her. "But we can make it work." The corner of his mouth tipped upward. "Neighborhood leaves a lot to be desired."
"It's the same thing I was saying to Nick...Mr. Hunter. This entire area is set for revitalization," she rambled, knowing that she was but unable to stop herself. "In a few more years, you won't be able to buy your way into this neighborhood."
"Time will tell, I'm sure." He turned to Nick. "When is Parris due back?"
Nick's buoyant expression became solemn. "Not really sure."
"Have you heard from her?" Celeste asked.
"No."
"You will." She offered an encouraging smile.
Nick exhaled. "Well, we better get out of here. When will the papers be ready? I can't make a move until they are."
"I'm expecting everything to come through this week. I'll call as soon as they do so that you can come into the office. I know how anxious you are to get started."
"Sam will be coming with me, if he's in town."
She snatched a glance at Sam. "Of course." She ducked into her purse. "If you're ready, I'll lock up." She let them out in front of her while she secured the locks. When she turned, Sam was right behind her.
"Good to meet you."
"You, too."
He extended his hand and she placed hers inside it. Her heart thumped so hard in her chest she grew light-headed.
"I'm sure we'll see each other again." He released her hand and she was able to breathe as she watched him walk toward Nick's car and get in.
For several moments she stood there, even as they drove off, working to get her bearings. Finally, in a state of mild confusion she got in her car, focused on the mechanics of driving and pulled away.
Chapter Six
As Celeste prepared for her evening under siege with her parents she held on to the wicked image of their appalled expressions if she walked in with Sam Blackstone on her arm instead of Clinton Avery. The smile that she would be able to maintain throughout the ritualistic evening would certainly be due to the anarchy she held in her heart.
Clinton was impeccable as always and for a moment when he stood in the threshold of her doorway, there was a second that Celeste's heart softened, her stomach lifted and a fleeting warmth filled her.
"Hello, sweetheart." The perfunctory kiss on the cheek--something that she'd encouraged long ago to avoid smudging her lipstick--broke the temporary spell of "just imagine." "Ready?" He brushed by her in that long-legged loping stride, simultaneously checking his Rolex watch.
Celeste drew in a breath of resolved frustration, closed the door and followed him inside. He turned upon her approach, his sea-blue eyes cool and discerning.
"You seem happy."
He said the words with the same unfamiliarity that its association had with his fiancee. In the years that he'd known Celeste, been intimate with her in ways he'd never been with another woman, he would describe her in many ways: pretty, intelligent, highly sexual, at times complex, opinionated, but never happy. Celeste was content, if anything. At ease with her life and what her station in life could afford her, much like himself. He supposed that was the equivalent of happy, something they simply took for granted. But he'd never seen Celeste happy.
"I don't know what you mean." She plucked her mink jacket from the chair and draped it over her arm.
Clinton's brows shrugged off the momentary glitch and he settled back into his comfort zone. "I decided to get a driver for tonight," he said, his breath warm on the back of her neck as he helped her on with her jacket. "So we can really enjoy the evening."
Celeste smiled to herself. That may be the obvious reason, but the real reason was that Clinton was angling to make an impression at her parents' soiree. She couldn't blame him. It's what they did. She turned out the lights and with his guiding hand at the small of her back they started on their evening of predictability.
When the black Lincoln pulled up in front of the Shaws' Park Avenue town house, they were greeted by red-vested valets and a long line of luxury cars. The party was in full swing although Celeste and Clinton had arrived only an hour beyond its start time.
"Your parents always know how to throw a party," Clinton said. "I think I just saw the finance chairman speaking with Senator Collins." The excitement in his voice was barely contained.
"Probably," she said absently. "They're always around." She'd grown up calling most of her parents' inner circle "aunt and uncle" so-and-so. To see the eclectic blend of who's who in the house where she grew up was tantamount to Sunday dinner at Grandma's--no big deal.
Although they'd both come of age under the umbrella of wealth and all it entailed, the Shaws also had political capital where the Averys did not. This salient fact still brought a glimmer of awe to Clinton's eyes.
Celeste glanced across the crowded floor of the main room. There were at least sixty guests milling about, chatting in the airy way that rich people did; all smiles and knowing nods, flashing diamonds, platinum and new figures courtesy of very expensive Park Avenue surgeons.
Corrine gave her daughter a finger wave above the heads of the gathering and motioned for her.
"We're being summoned," Celeste murmured.
He dipped his head in her direction then followed the lift of her chin. "Who's that with your mother?"
"Richard Phillips, he's running for senate."
Clinton straightened his shoulders. "Let's not keep them waiting."
While Celeste smiled and nodded in all the right places, her mother--always the consummate hostess--extolled Clinton's virtues and how well he would one day do in politics.
"What line of work are you in now?" Richard Phillips asked.
"I'm a financial consultant for Ameritrade. My fourth year. I handle the corporate accounts and acquisitions."
He nodded his approval then dug in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and extracted a card. "Stay in touch. Depending on how things go, I may be able to use someone like you on my team."
"Thank you, sir, I like the sound of that." He took the card and gave Phillips one of his own.
"I'd better go mingle," he said to the trio. "Good meeting you, Clinton, and as always it's a pleasure to see you, Celeste."
Corrine turned to the two young people. "These are the kinds of people you need to know, Clinton, if you plan to get ahead in this world."
"I totally agree. I appreciate all of the introductions."
"Have you spoken to your father?"
"We only arrived a few moments before you saw me," Celeste said, feeling immediately defensive. And knowing her mother she was being set up for the onslaught.
"Had you arrived when I asked you to arrive you would have had the opportunity to speak with him before he was bombarded with all of these people vying for his attention. But of course that would never occur to you--to do anything that I ask."
The flame of ridicule began in her ears, spread to her face and down the center of her chest until the heat of her embarrassment engulfed her. Her eyes burned. "I'll go find him."
&nbs
p; "I'm sure he's out on the terrace. Heaven only knows why in this chilly weather. I'm sure he's smoking one of those damned cigars." She turned her back on Celeste and hooked her arm through Clinton's, telling him who she wanted him to meet as they walked off. As if Celeste no longer mattered. Maybe she didn't.
As she made her way through the knots of guests, Celeste was stopped by her "Aunt" Anne, who was happy to see that she hadn't brought that "friend" of hers. "She really doesn't fit in, if you know what I mean," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Celeste lifted her chin. "Actually, I don't." She offered a tight smile to the startled expression of her "aunt" and escaped.
Celeste found her father on the terrace in deep conversation with the head of one of the computer giants. Ellis Shaw was a handsome man, one who commanded attention the moment he entered a room. He was still tall, even at sixty. His full head of black and gray hair was the envy of many of his associates. But it was also the power he wielded that drew lesser men to him--they wanted what he had to rub off on them somehow. Her mother carried the fortune. But her father was the real rainmaker of the family. He had the ear of anyone who was important, from one end of the country up to the highest office in the land. That was his gift.
"Hi, Daddy."
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air before turning to the sound of her voice. Something mildly resembling a smile tugged the corners of his mouth. "Did your mother send you?" His gray eyes glimmered against the backdrop of the night sky.
"Something like that." She stepped up to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Clinton's here, I'm sure."
"Mother is introducing him around...like a pet," she added with disdain.
Ellis made a noise in his throat. "That's how you get ahead in the world, by who you know." He tugged on the cigar and let the smoke drift along the night air.
Another lecture on social networking she did not need. "You're right, of course. I suppose I should get back inside and mingle. Especially since I already know you," she teased, in an attempt to lighten the weight of the mood.
